


Of Games and Players

by fanfoolishness (LoonyLupin), LoonyLupin



Series: Ouroboros: Aodhan Trevelyan X Dorian Pavus [5]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Aodhan Trevelyan, Comfort/Angst, Dragon Age Quest: Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts, Fluff and Angst, Halamshiral, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Innuendo, M/M, The Winter Palace (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-08 11:06:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6852172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/fanfoolishness, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/LoonyLupin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisitor has proven to be an accomplished player of the Game, but the cost is great, as Dorian discovers.  Aodhan Trevelyan struggles with his choices.  Vivienne and Iron Bull offer Dorian advice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Games and Players

Dorian and Aodhan trudged down the hall to Aodhan’s room in the Winter Palace in silence.  Technically, Dorian had his own room down the guest wing hallway, but he hadn’t visited it once.  Neither he nor Aodhan had seen the need; the rumors would get out either way, and they had decided they might as well enjoy their time in the palace properly.

Of course, they hadn’t counted on allowing an assassination and battling a duchess to the death, so that did rather put a damper on things.  

Aodhan unlocked the door to his room, grim and hunched in on himself.  They headed for the wardrobes.  Dorian sighed, pulling off his blood-spattered scarlet formalwear and reaching for a jacket in black silk and gold trim.  He glanced up at Aodhan, wishing they had a little time to breathe before the peace talks resumed.   _Peace._  It was a funny word, considering Florianne was dead in the gardens and Celene’s blood was still likely being scrubbed off the marble floors.  Pity so many servants had died tonight; it would take ages to clean.

He cringed at the thought.  Strange.  It was nothing that would have bothered him back home, beyond the waste, the excess of it.  Now he felt disquieted, thinking of the elves who had met their end while simply doing their jobs.  Had any of this been worth it, tonight?  Orlais would be stable once more, and the servants would be crushed under a new heel, most likely.  Dorian frowned.  Perhaps Sera could help, in her small ways; perhaps Briala could do more.  Should do more.

Beside him Aodhan tugged his torn jacket over his head, and surreptitiously Dorian checked him for wounds.  He seemed unharmed, despite the arrows Florianne had sent his way.  But Aodhan’s face was like a mask, taut beneath the freckles.  He slipped on a new jacket, this one trimmed with drakestone buttons and a burgundy sash over rich mahogany.  He always did look best in those colors.  He didn’t usually act this serious, though.

“Are you ready to see this through?” asked Dorian.

“Gaspard and Briala are waiting,” said Aodhan dully.  “All that remains is one last bit of intrigue, and my part in the Game ends tonight.  I wish you could be there to get me through it, but they only want to deal with me.”

“I’ll be waiting in the wings,” Dorian promised, giving him a bright smile, but behind it, he worried.  He took Aodhan’s hand in his, kissed the scars on the knuckles.  “You’ll be brilliant.”

 

* * *

 

The Iron Bull towered over Dorian, his presence like a mountain at Dorian’s back.  A very active, muscled, maul-wielding mountain.  Here in the shadows of the Grand Ballroom, however, the rage and the raw power were carefully held back, and Dorian could see the hint of the Ben-Hassrath in him; something in the calculated disinterest of his gaze, the way he held himself.  Not for the first time, Dorian was glad Bull was on their side.

“So it’s Gaspard,” Bull said, bending to talk quietly into Dorian’s ear as Gaspard began his opening words.  “But Briala’s got her piece, too.  See the way she watches him?  Smart move.”

“Gaspard’s expansionist aims will need to be reined in,” said Dorian.  “We can hardly have him marching on Skyhold next week.  All of that delightful dirt we found on him will be carefully put to use.”

“I’m surprised the boss pulled this off.  Doesn’t seem like him.”

“He worried Celene would not have the backbone to stand against Corypheus,” said Dorian, sotto voce.  “I believe it the best option we had to work with.”

“I’ve got no problems there,” said Bull. “You know me; if I can smash it with a hammer, I will.  Gaspard and I would get along just fine.  He gets shit done.”  He crossed his massive arms.  “But you keep an eye on the boss, Vint.  He doesn’t have the heart for this crap, even if he’s good at it.”

Aodhan took his place beside Gaspard, his voice ringing in the ballroom.  The people warmed to him, nobles fanning their masked faces admiringly, palms meeting in dainty applause.  A hundred undercurrents swept the room, the threads between alliances, the remnants of schemes and dramas, and Aodhan had danced through them all beautifully.  

But his face was drawn, his eyes shadowed.  Dorian thought of Tevinter, tightropes and tripwires in every veiled conversation, and he wondered if Aodhan could be happy there.

 _Stupid, thinking of that._  He shook the idea free, and he watched Aodhan, troubled.

 

* * *

_At last._  Dorian pushed his way past Celene’s former arcane advisor, a peculiar woman with tawny eyes and a knowing smile.  He knew her type, oh yes; she’d have done _quite_ well in Tevinter.

He stepped out onto the balcony, seeing Aodhan leaning against the railing, his shoulders sagging.  Dorian’s chest ached at the sight.

“Now, now, the party’s only just begun,” he said heartily, closing the distance between them.  Perhaps he could be cheerful enough for them both.  “You can’t hide out here, my Lord Inquisitor.  Why, every last noble is clamoring to meet you all over again.”

“Don’t remind me,” said Aodhan in a flat voice.  He glanced over his shoulder at Dorian, who sidled up to him along the railing.  His face creased in a small smile.  “Still, though, it’s good to see you.”

“You’re mulling things over,” said Dorian.  “Not always the most pleasant thing to do.  Care to share?”  He leaned in, their arms brushing, hoping Aodhan could catch the concern in his voice.

Aodhan was quiet for a moment, closing his eyes.  Dorian noticed a flicker of movement in his fingers, and checked to see if Aodhan was digging at the skin around his nails.  Indeed, there were fresh red marks on his left hand.  Dorian quickly put his hand over Aodhan’s.  It helped, sometimes, those times he didn’t seem to realize he was doing it.

“Maybe I could have forced some kind of peace agreement,” Aodhan said, ignoring Dorian’s hand.  “Maybe Celene didn’t have to die.”

“An empress knows the risks, Aodhan.  She took that on willingly.  And now her country is safe.  One could do worse with their reign.”  He sighed.  “But perhaps this sort of intrigue _is_ rather barbaric, when you stop to think about it.”

“ _Barbaric_ is insulting to the barbarians,” said Aodhan.  He stared over the gardens into the distance, past the darkness pooling over where they had killed Florianne.

“What you need is a distraction,” said Dorian firmly.  “I have just the thing.  Let’s dance.”  He circled around, bending into a graceful half-bow, extending his hand.   _Take it, you fool man_.  

He ignored the fluttering sensation threatening somewhere around his midsection.   He and Aodhan had done far more scandalous things than dance – there was that lovely time on the balcony, and sneaking out to the throne at three in the morning for Aodhan to _sit in judgment_ , and that hasty, delicious tryst in Skyhold’s gazebo…  But really.  Could _dancing_ be truly this exciting?

Aodhan gave him a tender, grateful look, taking his hand, and Dorian remembered box steps learned in Minrathous, japes for high society balls.  Always, he had been with a woman during these dances.  Sometimes he had been lucky enough for his dance partner to be jovial, sarcastic, and witty; more often, he’d dealt with sullen glares and snide remarks when he never asked them for anything more.  He could still remember that sinking feeling.  But what other option had there been?

It transpired that there was _this_.  There was _him_.  There was the familiar weight of Aodhan’s hands in his, but also the newness of their bodies close together this way, moving in steps that took them circling around the balcony.  Dorian could hear the voices of people beyond them through the open door; anyone could _see_ , and yet… and yet there was no hue and cry raised from the hubbub within.  Only the hushed tones of everyday gossip, and Dorian could live with _that._

He could live with the way Aodhan gazed at him, green eyes soft and gentle, smile tugging at his face despite the weight Dorian could see he carried.  

“You’re incredible,” Dorian murmured, lips brushing against Aodhan’s ear.

A husky laugh.  “You’re flattering me.”

“Always.  Is it working?”

An aching exhalation.  “Perhaps I’ll show you later.”

 

* * *

 

Dorian stared down into his wineglass, squinting at the last bit of liquid swirling round the bottom.  Skyhold’s wine cellar was slowly and painstakingly improving, but he was still delighted to be drinking some _proper_ wine again.  He’d need a refill.

He glanced across the ballroom.  After their dance, Aodhan had been lured back into the throng, nobles congratulating him and preening themselves in the same breath.  Dorian shook his head.  He had tried to rescue him more than once, only to physically have trouble reaching him past the crowds that had formed.  Really.  You’d think even Southern nobility would show a _little_ restraint.

He watched Aodhan for a while, his red hair making him an easy target.  He hoped he would never need defend him from assassins; he’d be hopeless at hiding.  He watched as someone refilled Aodhan’s glass again, and wondered how he was doing.  The poor man’s alcohol tolerance was vanishingly low.  Just another crime of these wretched Circles, though hardly their greatest.

People closed in around Aodhan, making it difficult for Dorian to see him.  He scanned the crowds, searching for any other familiar faces.  After his dreadfully dull time in the gardens, fending off surprised gasp after surprised gasp once his fellow guests  realized he was from Tevinter, he was not eager to socialize with anyone new.  Even the wine pleasantly blurring the edges couldn’t push him into more of the Game tonight.

At least, not with any _new_ players.  Vivienne joined him at the bar, her own wineglass freshly filled.  She, too, had changed, this time into a flowing Orlesian gown.  Her mask perched on her face as if it belonged there beneath her splendid headpiece.  “Darling,” she said, with an elegant tilt of her head.  “Our Inquisitor has caused quite the stir, has he not?”

“Indeed,” said Dorian.  “I dare say tonight will fuel the gossip for years to come.”

“As well it should.  The Game would not be nearly so exciting without the tales it inspires.”  She gave him a small, measured frown, edges of her mouth pulled down just so, a hint of narrowness to her eyes beyond her mask.  She was truly an accomplished player.  “I shall miss Celene; she was a fine ruler, accomplished in her goals and efforts.  Still, she was outplayed, and I commend our dear Inquisitor for his choices tonight.”

“I would be certain to pass it along, but you have never shied from making your opinions known yourself, Lady Vivienne.”  A servant appeared at his elbow with a fresh pitcher of wine, and Dorian sighed appreciatively, watching the man fill his glass.

“You’re quite right, of course,” said Vivienne.  She glanced in Aodhan’s direction, studying him for a moment.  “He plays well, for a mage.”

“An interesting observation, coming from you.  Perhaps the finest player in the room.”  He did not mean it as a compliment.  It was simply fact.

“You do notice the details, darling.  It is ever so nice to have someone civilized to speak with at Skyhold.”  She took a sip of her wine, and Dorian followed suit, warmth suffusing him throughout.  “He plays well.”

“You said that.”

“Clearly, it was important enough to state twice.”

Dorian laughed.  She was a force unto herself.  “I suppose so.  You’re that shocked, are you?  He _does_ come from a noble family, after all.”

She shook her head.  “He does not feel himself to be nobility, regardless.  Most in the Circle do not strive for more; a common failing among my brethren.”  She raised her glass, studying it.  “There are dangerous things in the depths here, and though he keeps himself above water, it is clear he swims against the current.  The longer we stay, the more he realizes it.”

“Why are you telling me this?  Do you take some perverse pleasure in seeing him struggle?”  The words burst out of him with more vehemence than he meant.  He glanced at his wine in surprise, then tasted it again.  Ah.  Fortified stuff, more than a little stronger than what he’d gotten used to at Skyhold.

Vivienne seemed affronted behind her mask, eyes widening.  “You are not the only one who wishes him well, Dorian.”

“Or is it that you simply don’t want him to fall on his face here, where your alliance with him might diminish your own power in court?”  It wasn’t a very good retort – not nearly enough subtlety – but the length of the night was beginning to wear at him, and he was no longer at his best.  He’d have to laugh with her about this tomorrow, or at least work on better barbs.

“It can certainly be both,” Vivienne laughed, her voice sparkling for a moment before the smile flattened again.  “I must be off, my dear, but I ask that you watch him closely.  As I said, the waters are deep, and he is tiring.”  She stepped closer, dropping nearly into a whisper, and laid one light, perfect hand on his arm.  For a moment, he almost thought it was concern he saw behind the mask.  “Do not let him drown.”

 

* * *

 

He found Aodhan again, _finally_ , after he worked through three more glasses of wine and two marriage proposals.  Somehow Aodhan had peeled himself away from the clumps of nobles, and Dorian found him in the hallway leading to the library, staring out the window with his hands behind his back.

“You’ve made your grand escape,” said Dorian.  “I dare say you’ve earned it.”

Aodhan turned around, a little unsteady on his feet.  “Dorian!” he said, holding out his hands.  “I’ve missed you so.  Come to dance again?”

Dorian helped by taking a few steps toward him, and Aodhan sagged into his arms, a strong cloud of wine-breath hitting Dorian in the face.

“Ah,” said Dorian.  “You’ve had rather more than enough, haven’t you?”

“Don’t know what you mean,” said Aodhan.  “Someone just kept filling my glass.  What else was I to do?  Didn’t want to be rude, after all.  Need to stay in their good _graces_.”

“Come on then,” said Dorian, scanning the hallway.  No one else seemed to have come this far into the vestibule area.  He pulled Aodhan into the library to be safe and shut the door, listening for any noises suggesting they were interrupting illicit sex or a stealthy murder.  Nothing.  Everyone must have been worn out by the night’s festivities.  “Let’s sit you down.”  He found a bench beside an overflowing bookshelf – was that _Hard in Hightown_?  A dozen copies?  Oh, he _must_ tell Varric – and sat them down on it heavily.

“What are we doing in here?” asked Aodhan.  He wavered as he sat there, swaying slightly from side to side.

“Avoiding a scandal,” said Dorian.  “Or at least, a particular sort of scandal.  It’s not the first time I’ve hidden out in a library until sobering up, and I’m certain it won’t be the last.  Though you do appear to be quite a bit more into your cups than I am.”

“Kept filling.  Didn’t ask them.”  Aodhan’s head crashed onto Dorian’s shoulder.  “Didn’t ask to do anything with this lot.”

“I know,” said Dorian.  He pressed a kiss to Aodhan’s forehead.  “You did marvelously, though.”

“Marvelous.”  Aodhan laughed, stumbling a little over the word.  Wine-scented breath puffed out of him in gusts.  “That’s one way to say it.  We killed the bloody _Empress_ , Dorian.”

“That was Florianne, or weren’t you there?” asked Dorian.

“You know what I mean.  Let it happen.  Thought it was for the best.  What the _fuck_ do I know?” he slurred.  “I know it all, apparently!  That’s enough for the nobles!  I just come on in and I… I tear down their _house_ , Dorian.  I tore it down.  Celene is dead.”

“Yes, we’ve established that.”

“That isn’t –!  There’s – Stop being an arse!  Why did it come down to _me_?” Aodhan spluttered, his voice rising and echoing in the empty library.  He was clearly agitated now, hands twisting in his lap.  There were bloodstains around his cuticles, new little wounds where he’d apparently been busy, anxiously digging at his own skin.

“Because you’re the Inquisitor.  And _give_ me those hands, you poor man.  I’ll stop being an arse, but you stop hurting yourself!” Dorian snapped.

“Don’t know how,” Aodhan mumbled irritably.  “I would stop if I knew how.  That much should be obvious.”

Dorian laced his fingers into Aodhan’s, regretting his outburst.  “I’m sorry.  There.  We’ll clean you up later.  Now what were you saying?”

“I wasn’t supposed to do this!” said Aodhan.  “No titles.  No nobility.  Lost it all.  All I have is the…”  Ice flickered around their woven hands briefly before cracking and falling to the floor.  He slumped against Dorian.  “That’s all I was allowed to have.  A memory of my name.  And the magic.”  His breath was suddenly ragged.  “Do you know –”  

He choked, unable to continue.

Dorian rocked him, slightly, on the bench.  “ _Amatus_.  Amatus, it’s all right.”

The words came haltingly.  “D’you know how long I grieved that name?  That life?”

In answer, Dorian pulled free one of his hands, reaching past his jacket collar.  He fumbled with the chain around his neck before he pulled out the Pavus amulet, holding it up so Aodhan could see it.  Lamplight glinted off the twisting snakes, sleek in gold and emerald.

Aodhan laughed shakily.  “That’s right.  You do know.”  His breathing slowed, becoming calmer.  He reached up and enclosed the amulet in his hand, pressing it against Dorian’s chest.  “I almost thought… tonight might be a chance to be what I was _meant_ to be.  A Trevelyan.  Head of a noble house.  A good person.”

“For one, politics and goodness rarely intersect, I’m sorry to say.  But more importantly, you _are_ a good person,” Dorian nearly growled.  “And I won’t listen to you besmirching your own good nature.  You can be dreadfully stubborn, but I won’t allow it.”

“I love you, Dorian,” said Aodhan softly.

Dorian closed his eyes.  It was still something Aodhan had only said a handful of times; Dorian treasured them all.  “Now who’s flattering whom?”

“Me.  It was me.  Flattering you.”  Aodhan laughed, sloppy chuckles that seemed to tire him.  “Anyway, I thought that this sort of thing was what I was supposed to do, if things had gone differently.  If I hadn’t had magic.  And you know what?  Do you know the part that’s got me most, well, fucked?”

“Do tell.”

“I hated it.  I hated it!  It was awful!”  He roared the proclamation into the library, sending it echoing back to them.  “It was fucking bullshit!”

“A little louder, Aodhan, Florianne’s guts might not have heard you.”

Aodhan laughed again, clumsily releasing the amulet and throwing his arms around Dorian.  Dorian embraced him in return, holding him close.  “And if I hated it that much, Dorian….”  He quieted.  “Then perhaps I was always going to be a rubbish Trevelyan.  And that makes what I used to mourn… not worth it.”

“An unsettling thought,” said Dorian gently.  

“Yes,” Aodhan agreed.  “It is.”   

Dorian wondered, not for the first time, how deep the scars from the Circle had cut Aodhan; the Circle, and the severance from his family.  They had more in common than he wanted; there were more layers to those wounds than he had ever dreamed.  Once that might have made Dorian run to something simpler, something safer.  Nameless encounters in the underbelly of the city, the burn of whole bottles of wine chased in a single night.  That would be easier.  

Instead he kissed Aodhan on the cheek.  This was harder.  But it was better, too, in ways he lacked the words for.

Aodhan smiled, reassured, but then an odd look crossed his face.  “Dorian….”

Dorian gazed fondly at him, then realized what was happening.  “You’ve got the spins, haven’t you?”

Aodhan groaned, tangling Dorian’s lapels in his fingers.  “Just all of a sudden.  There’s a name for this?  Am I dying?  I don’t want to die in Orlais, Dorian.  Don’t let me die here, of all the horrible places.”

“I won’t let you die, but you’ll probably need to vomit.  Come on, quickly now, let’s find you a vase that isn’t full of some treasured emperor’s blasted ashes.”

“But wouldn’t that be a _lovely_ send-off – ugh, oh no –”

“No, not _there_!”

 

* * *

 

Dorian yawned, stretching and squinting against the sunlight streaming in through the half-opened curtains.  He was still tired, but could tell that the morning was half past.  He wasn’t sure what time he had led Aodhan back to bed last night after the disastrous turn in the library; luckily, he’d managed to clean up the mess with a tapestry that hadn’t appeared to be terribly important.  He chuckled at the thought.  Poor Aodhan.  The fellow really needed to drink more often so this sort of thing wouldn’t happen.

He yawned again, and the rest of the evening came back to him.  He rolled onto his side, and was surprised to see Aodhan blinking back at him, his green eyes sleepy, his red hair tangled and sticking in four different directions.  It had escaped its binding sometime in the night, and appeared to be taking its revenge.

Dorian reached out and patted Aodhan’s hair, smoothing it back behind his ear.  “Good morning.  Feeling better, I hope?”

“Got a bit of a headache,” Aodhan grumbled.  “And I don’t quite remember getting back here.  I assume you had something to do with that.”

“Bull had to help too.  You’re surprisingly awkward to drag along.  You have such gangly long legs.”

Aodhan grinned.  “Must’ve been a sight.”  He rubbed his forehead, wincing a little.  “Remind me never to drink Orlesian wine again.”

“On the contrary, you must drink _more_ of it,” said Dorian sternly.  “If you don’t build up a tolerance I shan’t be able to take you anywhere.”  He chuckled.  “Though I suppose I could always drink your share.  A sacrifice I would be willing to make for the Inquisition.”  He tilted his head jauntily, jutting his chin out to cut a dashing figure, albeit one in bed.  “It’d be terribly noble of me.”

“Aaaugh, nobles,” said Aodhan.  He scooted closer to Dorian until their noses touched; Dorian could feel the heat of him only inches away.  He wondered how bad that headache was.

“You did well,” said Dorian.  “Surely it’s good to know you can play the Game when needed, even if you’d rather be elsewhere.”

“Anywhere, really.  But it’s done, for good or for ill.  I’ll simply have to live with that.”  He was pensive.  “You wouldn’t want to just… be the Inquisitor for me, would you?  Surely there’s some sort of simple Anchor transference spell and poof!  Dorian Pavus, Lord Inquisitor, savior of Thedas.”  A dreamy expression crossed his face.  “And I’d be the charming Inquisitor’s loyal consort.  You’d look devastatingly handsome as a monument, you know.  Once you save the world and all that lot.”

Dorian laughed.  “Oh ho!  So that’s your grand plan!  I see how it is.  You know, it’s not the worst idea.  Who better to cut a Tevinter megalomaniac down to size than another Tevinter?”  

Aodhan’s grin faded.  “I would never make you do it,” he said quietly.  “I didn’t ask for it, but I’m no shirker, either.  I’ll see it through.”  His mouth twisted, suddenly miserable.  “No matter what.”

“Shhh, now, none of that.”  He smiled at Aodhan until the other man’s scowl softened.  “It’ll be all right, amatus.  I promise you.”

“If you promise.”  Aodhan considered, sighing.  “I’d very much like to kiss you, Dorian, but I fear my breath might outdo a dragon’s right now.”  He made a face, smacking his lips.  “I was sick, wasn’t I?  I remember something about that.”

“Only a little,” lied Dorian.  He didn’t see the need to make the man feel _embarrassed_.  He was glad he had been the only one to see it; it had been impressively unpleasant.  He cupped Aodhan’s cheek with his hand, his thumb stroking circles against his stubble.  

“I suppose I should get up,” Aodhan said regretfully.  “I’m sure the advisors will want to debrief me in excruciating detail.  And Gaspard will likely not want us to overstay our welcome.”  He slid an arm around Dorian, closing the gap between them until they were pressed against each other, skin to skin.

“You do realize this is the opposite of getting up,” said Dorian in a rough voice.  “You don’t know how tempting you are.”  He slipped his legs between Aodhan’s, stifling a groan when he felt Aodhan’s growing arousal.  “Oh, is that what you meant by ‘getting up?’”

Aodhan grinned.  “Did you think I could lie here with a handsome naked man and not react?”

“You took the words right out of my mouth.  Perhaps you’d care to replace them with something else.”

“As long as you don’t mind a bit of dragon’s breath –”

“Don’t be _ridiculous_.”

Upon reflection, Dorian decided in a haze between kisses and groans, their time at the Winter Palace had not been a complete waste.  True, Aodhan had had a difficult time of things.  Dorian would have spared him that.  But they’d come through it together, hadn’t they?  And that was worth something quite fine.  

Besides, here was a game they could both enjoy.

**Author's Note:**

> Aodhan, like me, has mild to moderate dermatillomania (skin-picking), which comes out anytime he's particularly stressed. It was worse in Ostwick Circle, but still flares now and then.


End file.
